


Slide on back, into this hometown photograph

by Austennerdita2533



Series: Can You Whisper In My Ear The Things You Wanna Feel? [3]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: ALL THE HAPPY THINGS, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bc we deserved to see Jess lookin' suave in a tux, Best Man Jess, But not to an occasion that requires him to wear a tie, Could be AYITL compliant, Could be post-OG series, Dancing, Drinking & Talking, Enough flexibility here for you to make up your own mind, F/M, Like a refined James Dean, Like the Best Man he was always meant to be, Literati Wedding Reception Fix-It, Maid of Honor Rory, Wedding Fluff, Who's reconciled himself to Stars Hollow's quirks, With Luke and Lorelai out of the chapel and finally married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 22:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Austennerdita2533/pseuds/Austennerdita2533
Summary: Rory and Jess are just two old friends who find themselves perched, shoulder-to-shoe, on the gazebo steps with autumn dusk at their backs and a bottle of Miss Patty’s wedding whiskey between them, plus one glass each.The night may be young but the sparks between them are not. After all, there's nothing like a celebration of love to stir old feelings...





	Slide on back, into this hometown photograph

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been nagging at the back of my mind for an embarrassingly long time. I'm sure it could be better, but I hope it turned out all right. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> xx Ashlee Bree

It starts off innocent enough, he thinks. 

There’s a short ceremony, frilly anecdotes, laughter. No bad moods or empty chairs. Fresh, crisp weather and cinnamon sticks. An exuberant motormouth bride who’s escorted by her beaming grump of a groom. Quirky table settings. Leafy napkins. Champagne. Live music once the band finishes tuning, the set list comprised of a multitude of Lane-approved songs from which the guests can choose and then be entertained for hours upon hours. Plus so much engorging food it’d make Willy Wonka himself bust twenty belt loops.

There’s no shortage of eccentricity whirling about at all times either. It’s more like a clownless circus than a wedding soiree what with a pig ring bearer and an accessorize-your-own snow cone booth that’s parked near the diner, not to mention the roster TJ’s circulating through the crowd so he can captain a new flag frisbee league on a vacant Doose-owned lot that was, supposedly, the site of a lettuce stampede a few months ago, but none of that’s surprising at an event like this one. Not here. Not for a town like Stars Hollow, no way. 

Somehow that’s fine. Preferable to him, incredibly enough. Whatever.

It seems Jess has grown more tolerant of this place over time, who knows when exactly, but the blaring lack of Elvis Costello lyrics in his brain these days makes it true. A begrudging fact to be more accurate. And although confessing such an abhorrent thought would’ve scandalized his teenage punk of a self into incredulity once, now, despite the close-knit insanity that abounds everywhere he looks or moves, and with the sum of it being nothing short of entertaining and refreshingly jarring to behold, he finds he doesn’t hate it here any longer. 

Nope. Consider his attitude changed. His resentment markedly dissipated. Hell, one could almost accuse him of looking forward to his visits back every now and again.

Isn’t that wild? Princess Bride _inconceivable _at best. The thought is so downright riotous he wonders if perhaps one of Babette’s lawn gnomes may’ve hypnotized him back in 2002. 

(If pressed on the veracity of that pleased-to-visit accusation, though, he swears he’ll deny it. One hundred percent. Scoffing through his teeth for extra measure like the smart-assed delinquent Taylor probably still assumes he is at his core.) 

It probably helps that no pesky or unfortunate stirrings from the past have dragged him asunder in Stars Hollow for a while, either. And for that, he’s grateful. It allows him to breathe easier at present. Relax. Relieved, frankly, that he and Rory can be at this reception together without awkwardness, without misgivings of any sort. Both of them enjoying the tulle-tied pomp and swirl of festivity around them instead. 

_It’s nice, isn’t it,_ Jess admits to himself as he peers at her sideways. _Whatever this is._ Her mouth’s poised around a pumpkin-headed utensil with her nose scrunched ironically at the moment, blue eyes shining, all while another five references rest on the tip of her tongue that are bound to amuse him once they fly out, and fly out they will. Shortly.

_Yeah_, he decides with a crack of his knuckles and a lazy smile. The comfort and familiarity they’ve always shared is still there, stirring subtly. It buzzes around them like a cozy undercurrent with no off switch. 

Despite the many years he and Rory have spent apart, and no matter the surplus of sparse emails, text messages, or outdated addresses they have or have not exchanged in all that time, they always seem to fall back into it as soon as they reunite, don’t they? Ease. Amity. That ability to simply be who they are.

Like a worn yet jostled feather drifting on air, or an inked over whisper emboldening in the back of his mind, Jess feels the inevitability of that settle between them again. 

Their gazes connect, spark, but there’s no pressure. There’s nothing to crinkle meaning into what they are or are not this evening. No expectations whatsoever. Just two old friends who find themselves perched, shoulder-to-shoe, on the gazebo steps with autumn dusk at their backs and a bottle of Miss Patty’s wedding whiskey between them, plus one glass each.

The alcohol is a tasty addition to the cake they’re sampling.

As it turns out, there are twelve different kinds thanks to the chef and best friend of the bride who seems to have arbitrarily decided that sugary gluttony doesn’t apply to those with the last name Gilmore. Or to anyone else who dares to try and eat alongside them tonight in button-popping solidarity. Not that Jess is complaining or anything, because he isn’t. And that’s shocking on its own given his disgruntled history with town events.

With ice cream by the dessert wayside or not, though, he’s satisfied. Stuffed full but content. Each slice of cake he’s tasted - number seven and counting - has been delicious. Just delicious. 

Still, with no iron stomach of his own, and a frosting limit they’ve long since surpassed, he finds he appreciates the boozy reprieve more than she knows.

_Liquid celebration_, Rory calls it as she pours. And he agrees. It’s the perfect phrase, smiling broader then because he knows the warmth in his chest has nothing at all to do with a stupid drink or a home-brewed fifth of whiskey, though he can’t deny the heavenly sting a perfectly aged malt elicits as it slicks down his throat in one smooth swallow. Nor does it come from the next generous swig or two he takes after they toast beneath the twinkle lights Kirk has accidentally ripped loose because he caught the bridal bouquet with his teeth earlier - yes, his teeth - thankfully landing in decorative hay instead of atop Sookie’s elaborative dinner buffet, but it has everything to do with those canoodling newlyweds in the center of the town square over there and the emotion that had shone from his uncle’s face during his Best Man’s speech. It was a moment that had Lorelai blotting at her mascara in touched surprise herself. No matter how much she’d love to deny it.

Jess knows that whatever’s sloshing through his insides may have something to do with her, too. Rory. She’s propped against him, barefoot, her toes pinched and sore after too many hours in uncomfortable shoes, babbling and laughing like old times. Like there’s nowhere else she wants to be. 

Though he is by no means a sentimental man himself, not in an overt way in any case, it’s safe to say a few more kernels of feeling have popped out of him today given the occasion and - yeah, okay - maybe because of the surrounding company as well.

Bizarrely, with her one arm looped around his bicep, and pop culture references rolling off her tongue like a dictionary game, he feels as if he’s come home in a way. Not to a place per se, but to a select few who’ve scooted aside and made room for him in their lives. Including him as if his presence matters. Treating him as though he belongs unconditionally; no matter what, no matter when he may or may not pop around in the future.

It’s an oddly pleasant feeling, to be regarded. Disarming for a man who’s spent most of his life feeling abandoned, on his own much of the time.

So the warmth gushing through him at present is not only foreign, unsettled in potency, but also painstaking and persistent. At least in the sense that it continues to vibrate gently inside him as he and Rory sip their drinks in companionable babble and quiet. 

He feels the buttery splash: an amber liquid molting against his ribcage that requires no draining or denying the more the wedding revelry sinks into the background and it’s just them. Just this. Just reminiscence and emotion captured like a snapshot photograph. It’s something which continues to evade conscious defining as the minutes continue to tick away faster and faster because it turns out the woman next to him is a not-so-innocuous additive that somehow manages to sharpen then inebriate his senses without trying. She simply talks, talks some more, and all feels right with the world.

Huh. Isn’t that something? 

Odd, probably, that Jess is not at all freaked out by it when he knows he should be. He faults the booze for that, definitely the booze. It muddles everything. 

“So how many broads have you wowed with your dance moves so far, Gene Kelly?” Rory asks as she refills his glass and hands it over.

“None.”

“You’re kidding.” Incredulous, “You haven’t danced with anyone?”

“Nope.”

“Come on!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he shrugs. 

“How? I mean…you must’ve been forced to endure the Macarena or the Cuban Shuffle or something! Or, I don’t know, maybe Miss Patty and Babette roped you into a three-to-tango situation so they could fight over who got to dip you before one of them _accidentally_ grabbed your butt? Those two tend to become rather handsy after they’ve hit the hooch. Always going after some young stud and mistaking him for Miss Patty’s Prospective Husband Number Thirteen, so it’s okay. I’ll listen.” 

“It’s just us,” she elbows him, grins playfully, “you can tell me. You can own up to your bad luck. It happens to the most unassuming of former hoodlums in the Hollow. I promise I won’t make fun of you for it…” She slides her tongue across her teeth to repress a laugh, “Much.”

When Jess waves this off as inaccurate, too, Rory looks all the more aghast while a tinge of scrutiny causes her forehead to scrunch. Intent to assess whether or not he’s telling the truth. 

“Fine,” she rests her chin on his shoulder and sighs. Takes a sip of her drink. It appears something in his smirk has convinced her to change tactics. “But I still don’t believe you.”

“Ouch. I feel like I should be offended by that,” he laughs.

“Wait, crap. _Crap_. That’s so not what I meant! Let me—” A pause. “It’s only that Grandma’s been pouncing on people since the music started,” she says, “shoving any poor sucker she could find under the twinkle lights so the photographer she hired - against Mom’s encyclopedia-length DON’T YOU DARE pre-wedding conditions, might I add - can snap a plethora of _suitable_ candid photos for her expensive Lorelai Gets Married album. I, myself, was paired with Michel no less than four times! Four!”

“So the point I’m trying to make is this: nobody is exempt from at least a twirl or two before the night ends.” Poking him, “Not even you.”

“Funny how that falls somewhere between an offer and a threat, Gilmore,” he says with an unexpected twinge once he realizes what she’s suggesting.

“Oooh. Finally caught on, did you?”

Amused, he leans forward on his elbows. Cocks his head, “I suppose this means you’re asking if I’ll pencil you in, miss?” 

“Indubitably, sir. Well—both you and your two left feet that is,” Rory amends with a wink. 

“Lame. What a poor choice of cliché. I mean, listen, I lived in New York City and could prove to be Fred Astaire swingin’ good for all you know.”

“Are you?”

“Hell no.”

Laughing, “Good. You nearly had me worried there. I’m no Ginger Rogers either so we’ll be well-matched. Now up, up, up!” she says with a finger snap. “Time to show me how well you dip, mister.” A hand curled around his tie, which she’s flapping against his shirt, Rory stands and yanks it over her shoulder with a conspiratorial smile. 

Without warning, she tugs Jess behind her into a swell of bodies and music before enough sense returns for him to concoct an excuse and wriggle out of it; which, were he to attempt it, would classify as a Luke-like default in every way.

Seemingly determined to claim at least one dance, though, Rory brokers no room for argument. She wastes no time in wrapping his arms around her waist. Next she moves her feet, her knees, her hips, to the acoustic beat of the song in the hopes he’ll mimic the movement. 

It doesn’t take long to match her rhythm, with him transitioning them smoothly from a sway into a rock.

They teeter closer and chatter to fill the empty space. To curb the tension. Her head brushes against his cheek a little too intimately during the chorus, her touch tantalizing on his nape, but neither one of them draw back. Neither one of them pull away.

Numerous sets lapse before they retreat back to the gazebo perch, their cake and whiskey stash replenished, the hour growing late. 

The guests have largely cleared out by now. Only a few stragglers remain who are too drunk, too comfortable, or too tired to care about two old friends who have slipped off together again. Alone. 

Apparently all it takes is a wedding party to nip Stars Hollow’s “nosy neighbor” defect in the bud temporarily. Amazing, isn’t it?

Content to watch Rory slide her arms through the sleeves of his jacket, which he’s just draped over her shoulders before the November chill can make her shiver, Jess allows himself to rake over her features for a second, unhurried. To catch a whiff of her floral perfume. Bottling up another memory. Then he becomes much braver than he usually dares by reaching forward to thumb off a fleck of leftover icing on her cheek, chuckling because she flushes, because she pats around for a napkin in vain, holding her eyes longer than he knows he should afterward because her pout is adorable and cuter than he remembered and - oh, screw it - he might be slightly tipsy. He might be drunk off the curves of her face.

_Shit. What if things between them aren’t as simple and benign as he wants them to be?_

She looks pretty, man. Too damn pretty. 

Jess realizes he may be lost for good now, dazed by sweet proximity. He’s a satellite slipping back into the gravity of the once-upon-a-them he thought had broken off long ago, gone astray, combusted so as to no longer be a part of this reality. So what is happening?

Soon Rory’s blinking back at him. 

Embarrassment fading, a small smile forms at the corner of her mouth, the moonlight a trickle of pearls on her skin. One, two, three seconds more and everything else recedes further when she catches him lightly by the wrist before he can think to pull away. 

The move surprises him. That ABORT, ABORT frequency in his mind has dulled down to a slow hush, a simple nothing.

They’re alone here, cocooned in a little niche they’ve procured with happy understanding of the other’s needs. This shared solitude is an alcove. Their temporary respite from the remaining crowd and today’s craze. 

Swallowing, his throat suddenly dry, Jess stills. Rory idles, her face paned in gentle curiosity. Their gazes tangle with something precarious, a question, something long since buried.

_Can this be happening again? Really? Can an ember this old, this burnt up, return to the wick and still catch flame? _

Once she shifts closer on the gazebo steps, however, tilting into his touch, her skirt spilt across his legs, he doesn’t bother trying to retie the knots around his heart. What’s the use? There’s a stupid sonnet of nothing and everything building inside of him that he hopes to find the strength to voice before it dissolves in his mind and it’s too late. But he can’t find a pen. He can’t write it down. There’s no room left in his head for words at this point, anyway. 

Helpless, he’s stuck on the other end of her spaghetti string like that stupid Disney mutt, the Tramp, and he hates himself for it. Hates it. Yet still owns it all the same.

It’s too exhausting trying to figure out what the hell it all means, so he doesn’t try. Doesn’t analyze. 

He’s so sick of rebuffing those edge of seventeen flutters that lurk in his recesses like a hot spot. A reservoir of feeling. He’s so done with all these highlighted passages in his periphery that refuse to fade with time. 

He can barely breathe let alone think about the erratic drumbeat spiking in his ears after her palm glides over his pulse point, down the cuff, up his sleeve…

He can hardly refuse when she’s crumbling his self-control, towing him in like he’s already caught…

So he lets go. 

Surrenders.

Giving into the ache before it swallows him up whole.

The air charged, unable to glance away, Jess lets his hand fall. Rory takes it into her possession immediately. His other one hovers in the air a moment, tentative, then comes to rest on her shoulder.

It seems the lapels of his tux jacket have flattened a few tendrils of her glossy hair beneath the collar, so he slips a hand underneath it to free them with a deft brush of fingertips against her neck without a word. Afraid to break the spell. Afraid to move even as they both lean in and bump a whiskey glass with a little _plink _from a clumsy ankle, and smash it to pieces. 

Distracted, neither one of them flinch. They disregard the shattered glass entirely. 

Eyes locked, resistance faltering, Rory tugs him once, gentle and prodding. Though encouragement is plain in her face, it’s courage he lacks. It’s courage he needs most. 

With only a breath left to cross, to finish it off, and with their foreheads already touching, Jess knows one inch more will doom him for certain. He knows one inch less will kill him right where he sits, no joke. And jeez, how big of a chump he feels to admit it without blaming something else first.

_ Does she notice, he wonders? Does she perceive an iota of this conflict? Can she sense the war he’s losing or has he gotten too fucking good at inscrutable emotion?_

“Jess?” she asks softly, the sound more like a pant than a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Should…are we about to do something smart or stupid?”

“I…” reeling, “I don’t know. Could go either way.” 

“If you had to pick?”

“Do you, uh,” he pushes bangs from her face, “do you really need an answer?” 

“Only for clarity’s sake,” she says, “but yeah.” Biting her lip, “If you can.”

“Right.”

“So?”

“Both then,” he says with a protracted sigh. He won’t lie to her; he never could. “Definitely both.”

“Right. Okay.” She mulls it over. Her eyelashes flit against the bridge of his nose. “Both.” Tenderly, Rory cups his jaw, runs her fingers through stubble that never used to grow there until he’d reached his late twenties. “I think,” her mouth ghosts against his cheek, beckoning, “I think I can live with a little contradiction in my life,” she smiles. “Can’t you?”

There’s no turning back after that. 

His lips throb, they’re already bruised with want. Burning. They’re already smarting from a mark of affection Jess remembers too well from his past dreams but knows hasn’t been anything concrete in years, not given, not taken, not tasted since they were a couple of kids and bad timing was the ultimate champion reigning between them. 

But there’s not a single obstacle in their way now, is there? No problems. No boyfriends or girlfriends lurking. No friends, no family members, no town folk who are raining down judgment or wondering if they’ll regret this in the morning. 

So where Rory leads next he’s bound to follow. He feels it in the bending, in the liquid pooling of his bones. Who is he to resist? Who is he to try and temper the fire spreading through him like a nuclear bomb as she wraps her arms around his neck? Pulling him in, holding him against her like she never plans to let go again. 

Jess shuts his eyes. Decides to close the remaining distance. He’ll take this chance, damn those consequences, worry about cauterizing the hurt he’ll more than suffer from later. 

_Yeah, later_…

After all, how can he pretend any of this is innocent? What could be less indifferent than making out with his ex-girlfriend behind a gazebo at his uncle’s wedding reception?

Reckless or not, he’ll find a way to live with it later. _Yeah._ Definitely later.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcome and appreciated. Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
